Young Writers Society

I look out at the sky every night, but I see no stars. I see machinery. I see lights created by the work of another person. I wonder, 'How much time and work did they pour into such a masterpiece?', because just like the rest of the inventions and visions of the future, planes are a work of art.

So why do I hate glimpsing them in the sky instead of stars?

Stars are nothing but gas. A cloud created from thousands of particles that bound itself together into a masterpiece that I see as nothing but a dot in the sky. I did not create it. Another person did not create it. But I feel lonely when stars leave me. I miss their glimmers and glints against the harsh light of the moon and the blinding light of the sun. I miss looking back at their ornate patterns and smiling when I see constellations I had to memorize in school. The stars did nothing for people. All we did was forget them. Or maybe we were forced to forget.

"Clancy."

I snap out of my thoughts and return to my living room. A dog licks my knee, and I bury myself in blankets on the couch. The TV quickly gets tuned out by my overactive imagination and the imminent doom that seems to surround everything I imagine.

I've never been lighthearted.

What can I do to bring the stars back? How do I keep them from being a memory lost to earth? Will the gasses that captured the stars and pulled them away from me ever fade away on its own, or will it all get thicker and thicker until the sky turns black?

It's alright, I think. It's alright. This world is only temporary.

It's something I've heard before. The world won't last forever. It will always change. But people change, and people don't last forever on this earth, either. Was I still not meant to guide them to eternal life, even if I knew they wouldn't choose that path? Was it wrong to protect them when I knew they would die anyway?

"Ty, how could you?"

The TV suddenly seems sharp and vivid as I push my thoughts away and refocus on the characters on the screen. It's much easier to watch their demise than my own. Even if doom isn't upon me, I often imagine it. But I don't prepare for it. I wait like a hen on her eggs, refusing to move even though I know the snake will bite me.

But he won't bite me today.

The environment is a sensitive topic. It's never been one I've particularly enjoyed. But, for once, I have the chance to do something. 

I have the chance to tell you.

It's a small step; every step a person takes is. But just like the stars, we will be forgotten by each other. We will be a mist that fades away in the wind, its soft embrace lingering on our shoulders even though we can't place what it's from. The stars will always be there, and they will always have their influence on the earth. They will linger, just like the fog.

I will linger too. I don't want you to remember my name. I want you to remember my words. So remember them. Reminisce over them.

And when I'm gone, take the next step for me.

***

500 years later

I never knew the point of this strange journal. I don't know what the stars are. Smog has covered the sky like a plague. But most of us are immune now, so I suppose it's fine.

Stars sound beautiful. I don't know why they left us, either. Did we push them out with our smoke and acid rain? Were they burned by the mistakes we delivered to them? I might never know. And I don't know what the next step is. But I will pass this journal down, so my daughter can see it one day, too. By then, the worst will be over, right? 

I have to hope so. All I have is hope.

***

1000 years later

Well. My grandmother is an idiot if she doesn't know what stars are. Stars are the gemstones of the sky. They glimmer and smile and form all sorts of shapes. What an artist the Creator of the sky was. I just wish my grandmother was here to see it.

The smog has cleared, and with it, most diseases. Those tree-huggers don't have anything to complain about anymore, so they've started advocating to bring back forests. What are forests? Cities of spindly skyscrapers that can't even hold a single person? Well, I don't want them back. I heard skyscraper 'trees' will produce too much oxygen. I'm happy with my amount of air, thank you.

All the best.

***

5000 years later

What a strange device. I haven't seen anything like it. All we've been using is wood and flint. Perhaps I'm supposed to scratch charcoal into it like we would for stone-stories.

Just like the last entry, my grandparents are idiots. All I see for miles are beautiful forests of purple and orange and blue. Everything grows on what my parents call 'artifacts' of the past. I think they're just rubbish diamonds. Everyone else is scared to harvest them, fearing that the 'Modernity' will come back. But I'll show them. How wonderful would it be to use the artifacts to create a shelter that doesn't tip over in storms? I can imagine it perfectly. But maybe they're right. Maybe all we should care about is the forest. It's treated us well; I wouldn't want to portray it.

This whole 'writing' thing is really boring. I'll set this journal down and go watch the stars.